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The tiny, weird, little journey of thoughts!


I often wonder what am I so preoccupied about that I can't pick up a pen and write.. I can't sit down and think about things. Things that mattered to me once, about thinking itself. My weird little thoughts when I was a child. I would associate people's faces with weird animals, would crease every line on their face and every reaction of their's in my mind, of what is happening inside my body at that precise moment... blood flowing into veins and out of arteries into my heart, of my flesh, bones and my skull. 

Its really weird, isn't it? And then I would think of thoughts itself, how they flow in and out, how they open myriad windows in my mind, each jutting off into their own rambles simultaneously, of things which I barely notice nowadays, like the trees, the centipedes that sit clustered in hundreds on the moist cement pavement which I happen to notice as I go to class everyday, of the beautiful designs and patterns on their wriggling bodies, how the million nerves of a leaf get illuminated and revealed by the sun's rays falling into each particle of the leaf, of the ants crawling everywhere, into horizontal and vertical planes alike, about their six tiny feet moving back and forth and propelling their bodies forward. 

Of the patterns on my skin, tiny little lines on my body that appear when I bend my wrist or stretch it, of how my nerves and skin stretch and my blue veins show mildly through my translucent skin on my feet, of the million patterns on my skin, my moist, dusky skin, of my short hair that curls up to my ears and how it flies in the direction of the breeze, the tiny dimples that appear on the both sides of my chin whenever I smile.

about my keyboard which doesn't have the number 9 key, once I noticed a dead frog turned upside down on the road, not a rare scene in my campus. It might have probably been hit by a bus. I sat down next to it and looked at it closely and thought about its green and yellow slimy skin covered in dirt, of how it lay there its legs spread and in complete peace... Why should we always associate death with tragedy? It is actually peace, when I tread near the bamboos, I also tend to observe the dried, yellow, long leaves, how they crumble into crisp dust of yellow when crushed and flow out of my hands when I blow them away, but as I smell them, the smell of dry bamboo leaves stick to my hand. 

Do you see where we have come? We have come to my life right now and I have come to thinking like I did when I was a child! :) 

I am glad you accompanied me in my little weird journey!

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CHAPTER 3


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To write is to dwell

FEBRUARY 15th, 2012





















What writing means to me...

As lonely as a cloud, as boring as boredom itself, I was. I grew up as a typical child at school but a very hefty one, I am still the same. I managed to cheer people with my innocence but did not manage to make happy friends to last a lifetime because of my gross physique. I couldn't play as I had no playmates at home and my only hobby was to sit and watch tv.

When I was studying in kindergarten, I used to visit a nearby shop with my dad. My dad was busy shopping for groceries and I engaged myself in observing things around me. The people who had mixed emotions that outshone on their faces, an old man cycling with a lot of strain, probably getting back home, the lady vendor with her dirty saree pinned up to her waist and squatting on the floor, selling vegetables, the autowala bargaining with his potential customer, the green trees which arched high with its countless leaves, the flowers that smile at me on the road side, happy child…